his attention.  He could copy into his paper this atrocious sentiment which Edward Everett delivered in Congress, without the slightest comment or allusion.  “Sir, I am no soldier.  My habits and education are very unmilitary, but there is no cause in which I would sooner buckle a knapsack on my back, and put a musket on my shoulder than that of putting down a servile insurrection at the South.”  The reason is plain enough.  Slavery was a terra incognito to him then, a book of which he had not learned the ABC.  Mr. Everett’s language made no impression on him, because he had not the key to interpret its significance.  What he saw, that he set down for his readers, without fear or favor.  He had not seen slavery, knew nothing of the evil.  Acquaintance with the deeper things of life, individual or national, comes only with increasing years, they are hardly for him who has not yet reached his majority.  Slavery was the very deepest thing in the life of the nation sixty-four years ago.  And if Garrison did not then so understand it, neither did his contemporaries, the wisest and greatest of them so understand it.  The subject of all others which attracted his attention, and kept his editorial pen busy, was the claim of Massachusetts for indemnity from the general government, for certain disbursements made by her for the defence of her sea-coast during the war of 1812.  This matter, which forms but a mere dust point in the perspective of history, his ardent young mind mistook for a principal object, erected into a permanent question in the politics of the times.  But the expenditure of enormous energies upon things of secondary and of even tertiary importance, to the neglect of others of prime and lasting interest, is supremely human.  He was errant where all men go astray.  But the schoolmaster of the nation was abroad, and was training this young man for the work he was born to do.  These six months were, therefore, not wasted, for in the university of experience he did ever prove himself an apt scholar.  One lesson he had learned, which he never needed to relearn.  Just what that lesson was, he tells in his valedictory to the subscribers of the Free Press, as follows:  “This is a time-serving age; and he who attempts to walk uprightly or speak honestly, cannot rationally calculate upon speedy wealth or preferment.”  A sad lesson, to be sure, for one so young to learn so thoroughly.  Perhaps some reader will say that this was cynical, the result of disappointment.  But it was not cynical, neither was it the result of disappointment.  It was unvarnished truth, and more’s the pity, but truth it was none the less.  It was one of those hard facts, which he of all men, needed to know at the threshold of his experience with the world.  Such a revelation proves disastrous to the many who go down to do business in that world.  Ordinary and weak and neutral moral constitutions are wrecked on this reef set in the human sea.  Like a true mariner he had written